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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272274">and i won't speak and i am not to speak</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant'>Larrant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Thin Red Line (A_Fine_Piece), Bleach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, kinky but in a bad way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:13:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><b>A Thin Red Line AU</b>: Sakuran becomes Kuchiki Byakuya's courtesan and the protagonist of this story is still Hisana.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aizen Sousuke &amp; Kuchiki Hisana, Aizen Sousuke/Kuchiki Hisana, Ichimaru Gin &amp; Kuchiki Hisana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and i won't speak and i am not to speak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/gifts">A_Fine_Piece</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184840">Part 0: Turning Back the Hands of Time</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece">A_Fine_Piece</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Do you think, on occasion, of what injuries the sky has borne?"</p><p>Unthinking, Hisana's gaze breaks from the go board. Her stone landing with a dull clack. She glimpses her captain and follows his line of sight to the sea outside the window: thinner than film, a single blur of white floating on rarefied canvas.</p><p>She thinks they had been engaging in small-talk that somehow touched on the pleasant weather: he had mentioned something of his squad's training being largely moved outdoors to take advantage of the clear skies.</p><p>"No." Hisana replies aloud, having truthfully never thought about it at all.</p><p>"I see." A moment of musing passes, an arranging of words. "Then, perhaps, I would invite you to think on the meteorites." A clack, a black go stone smooth on the board.</p><p>"The storms," he continues, a murmur mild and abstract. "The lightning and heat. And when it rains each sharded icicle that melts to water as it penetrates -- all the scars that vacant sky has sustained; all those thousands of years of damages, forgotten in sunlight. Wouldn't you agree?"</p><p>Hisana's eyes stray briefly to move a stone, saving her lower left corner. A failing struggle: it's the only part of the board she <em>can</em> save. She returns her gaze to her captain. "If it is gone, the sky surely means it forgotten."</p><p>His mouth tugs up, his deliberation seemingly concluded, the direction of his glasses returned to the board. "By us, certainly."</p><p>Ten minutes and several moves later, the captain sets another stone and doesn't bother in removing the white stones he has captured. Despair coils glassy about her neck, and Hisana gracefully concedes her loss.</p><p>For all the times she has played against the captain, she can think of no example where she has won. This vulgar desperation of hers has been truly remarkable in improving Hisana's skills in various boardgames -- sadly, it has only been enough to delay the inevitable an inconsequential amount.</p><p>On the days he is not within her general vicinity and therefore sacrosanct, she contemplates why she even bothers.</p><p>"You've improved." The fondness of a smiling countenance, choreographed endearment gliding an empty face. <em>Endearment</em> -- to a pet or a child, pick and decide.</p><p>Hisana returns the smile. Soothes her mouth with tenderness. Wraps her hands to cover the struggle and the scream. "My lord is too kind."</p><p>Reading the intent in a flicker of expression, she rises from her seiza, chastises her stiff knees as she skirts the table to approach him. Her lord's fingers catch her palm, still kneeling, lips finding the side of her wrist. A promise of teeth at her open pulse. Testing the beat of a rabbit-heart.</p><p>There's a shiver that starts and has run itself into the soft of her bones. Not the kind that curls your muscles in anticipation, the kind of shiver that runs its heat-track from palm to collar to the thud beneath your ribs. This is the crawling, the slick and desert-starved -- shudder from a carrion-eater waiting to burrow your open wound.</p><p>That's what Hisana feels like. His lips, the span of her wrist, how he tracks the scent of the infirm beneath her perfume.</p><p>Instinct -- the tenderness of his speech, the slide of fingers on her skin, a myriad of tells that have grown to dictate her disposition in front of this man -- informs her she's in for more than usual. <em>Very good</em>, Hisana congratulates herself on this brilliant stroke of intuition.</p><p>"Lord Aizen --"</p><p>His name, held between her teeth as he draws her close and she falls to kneel at his side. He kisses Hisana, says her name in reply into the waiting of her breath. It stops being hers when he says it; he turns her name into a knife and flays her skin with the blade. Or maybe it's self-flagellation -- the way his mouth descends to her neck and she swallows the blood he brings back.</p><p>She kisses him and it stains her tongue a colour that is only her own.</p><p>In her dreams last night, her lord bit her flesh clean from the bone. Mouth stainless as he ate her, piece by voiceless piece, teeth gleaming pure white. She remembers the gaze that looked into her, unblinking, liquid-eyed and unreadable in the moonlight.</p><p>In her dreams last night, she walked barefoot on a beach. Watched every unheavy step embed itself in shoreline. Watched the water rush up, with rough hands scrub her antiquity back to formlessness. No past and no future in sand that left and let her none. In the end the sea rising to sink her with all the love of a monstrous mother.</p><p>Even the pure love of her dreams is a love that devours.</p><p>The body, she thinks, foreshadows its pain. And the waiting tremor in her spine seems to please him. With his hands that deliver such violence, he holds Hisana and softens his kiss to the sweetness of a lover. She can taste it: the lingering mild of the confections that had accompanied their tea.</p><p>His long fingers slide from her face and it's Pavlovian response -- her whole body that tenses, a prophecy or a history of agony, primitive in its invasion of her flesh. Her lord's hand lingers on the line of her trachea, pushes aside the collar of her kimono and traces the curve of a shoulder. Where he stills, she shudders. Elegant fingers pressing down on a nerve point.</p><p>A spark spreads like ice crystallizing and fractures into glass -- pain lashes Hisana's throat in a soundless cry. Her tears float the crevices of her lashes. Her face rearing into the fabric of Lord Aizen's kimono, her breath gasping and wet. Then, as rapidly as the agony had materialized, it shatters into an echo.</p><p>Lord Aizen waits for her to recover: the silent convulsions; suppressed heave for oxygen. A thumb brushes gentle across the wet salt, beneath clenched eyes and to the slope of a cheek. Almost, she thinks of leaning into that touch and begging. What a <em>'please'</em> turned a litany of pleas would bring her, Hisana does not know.</p><p>-- he had asked to see that once, for curiousity or for novelty; she had begged and begged and known it would do nothing and he had watched the words bleed into wrecked gibbering and still she had pleaded her voice broken. Hoarse for days for the misery.</p><p>It feels better, begging. But Hisana knows the whetted self-recrimination that follows unprompted on its heels.</p><p>Despite the pretences she uses to delude herself, each time she is as unprepared as the last. Each time she realizes she has forgotten the extremities of the last. Woundlike. It's an animal theatre, she's a carcass and her lord is plucking the dead nerves. Corpses move if you pull the right strings.</p><p>She thinks he's holding her wrists down with a hand, her arching frame, pushing down the writhing shapeless impulse to run <em>to run</em> to do anything to dislodge the glass that cuts her from the marrow out. Her body under his, weighted by the tether of a bruising hand. The bruises feel like nothing. Splintered sense of her limbs contorting, the noise locked in her throat crawling and thrashing soundless.</p><p>Through a haze, she feels Lord Aizen's thumb trace her collarbone; the fragile flesh beneath her left eye; the shallow of her ankle. In waves, the pain tosses her between salt-water cliff and a floundering sea.</p><p>By the time he's finished she's unable to stop convulsing. Sweat dripping her unkempt hair. Aizen kisses her wet eyelashes. His eyes are darker without the glasses -- she doesn't know when he took them off, she doesn't know if she knocked them off in a writhing, tortured fit.</p><p>Someone's hand finds the loose tie of her obi, sheds her of the silk that covers her twitching body. Hisana can do nothing but lean into him, breathe the brimming of blood shackled in his robes as he divests Hisana of her outer kimono, every mild touch wracking her frame.</p><p>He takes and he takes and she may do nothing but press her head to unsolid ground and permit him. She isn't sure how much longer it lasts. Possibly, she blacks out in the middle of it.</p><p>In any case, by the time Hisana realizes what's she's doing, the thing puppeteering her bones is already returning her into a shaky, inelegant seiza. Lord Aizen has already returned himself to a presentable state and Hisana watches him retie his obi -- per usual, she the pathetic mess unable to assist.</p><p>A thumb brushes her cheek and the flinch rocks Hisana's body into hypothermia. A fever of cold. Lord Aizen kisses her forehead. When did he get so close, when did he step away.</p><p>She hears the door slide shut behind him. The discordance rises into a chord that collapses on itself, on herself and -- oh, Hisana is on the floor now. She hopes she didn't collapse before he left.</p><p><em>Marginally worse than usual</em>.</p><p>She looks down. Gazes the plum stains rotting to yellow on her skin. The healer will attend Hisana later, see the marks removed. In the unnatural white of her palms, she finds knotted tremors still shivering her limp mass. Hisana would stem it at the source, if she knew where the source was.</p><p>Considering the captain has never left her with more than surface marks -- marks that return to unblemished skin within minutes of healing reiatsu -- her owner has never been unkeen on his patronage. Marks left unseen are marks that will not deplete her value.</p><p>Captain Aizen's tastes, the Mistress had once commented, were irregular but not <em>unbearably</em> irregular.</p><p>Even if they were, Hisana doubts she would be saved.</p><p>As if falling up on accident, her eyes lift past the window and search the shapeless sky. Hisana has always thought of it as a gaping hollow her fingers might brush in the aimless stretch beyond her cage. When she had been more inclined towards poetry, she had thought of flying or falling -- airborne, pushing past the locked window, turning to a blackbird that might beat its wings and breathe nothing but the clean, sweet air above the incense and pollution.</p><p>Today she thinks of nothing but meteorites. Storms and lightning. Dumb mimicry of tranquility, sea-blue and seamless pretence of uninhabited bliss. She looks and sees how daylight and clear skies colonize every particle until nothing remains of the bygone. Acid churning a syrup in her stomach at the thought.</p><p><em>Well</em>, the insanity in her murmurs,<em> not long now until everything I see is tainted by some malignant association</em>.</p><p>With the passing minutes, her breath calms. The fear tightening to a string held taut in her throat.</p><p>How long has it been like this: that every moment apart from him is only in wait of him. And the waiting is a dread more damning than the hours Hisana spends in his company.</p><p>When the trembling fully subsides, Hisana will bathe and redo her makeup for the next client. The powder she'll draw to cover threadbare skin, a line of gold to paint her sorry mouth and the sorrier words that leave it. And all the while the waiting a freighted paperweight, black stone lying beneath her collarbone.</p><p>Each inhale a choking.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>in which i really have no idea where this is going or what is going on but i already have 8000 words in my drafts (totally not chronological so good luck to me). chapter count subject to (heavy) change. send help !!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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